


Cold Lemonade

by RisqueSno



Series: Hot and Cold [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Hand Jobs, Older Man/Younger Woman, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poolside Groping, Spoiled Teenager, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-04
Updated: 2009-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisqueSno/pseuds/RisqueSno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His teenage lover is home alone by the pool and he's got a few hours to lavish her with attention. (Sequel to "Hot Coffee")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Lemonade

**Author's Note:**

> Author Notes: Loose summer-flavored sequel to “Hot Coffee”, which was set in winter. Decided it was better still without names and from first person. Dedicated to skinny rich bitches in bathing suits, distinguished older gentlemen, and the fine tradition of the "nooner booty call". Also...summer! How I miss you summer. :*(
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction and any resemblance to anyone, dead or alive, is entirely coincidental. I in no way encourage, and in fact abhor, relations between actual adults and minors under the age of eighteen.

Yet another text is sent to me during my lecture. The girl practically lives on her phone and I’ve since learned to keep my own set to vibrate. The message is short and to the point, a series of numbers. Simple, established code for a time, a place, and her current mood. 020303. Two in the afternoon, her backyard, and “bored”. Backyard…pool. My next class is at five. I barely stop to gather my suit jacket and briefcase before dashing to my car, realizing ten miles down the road that I’ve neglected to lock my office.

...Fuck it. Not going back.

Creep up the private drive leading to her house as the dashboard clock flicks to two-eleven, loosening my tie as I head along the side of the brick structure. Hear the click of the Pomeranian’s nails on the patio as I unlatch the gate to the privacy fence. The wonderful, glorious privacy fence. Dog barks followed by her voice telling it to “chill, puppy”. She’s dripping wet, stepping off of the wooden deck with a glass in her hand, peering at me over thick black sunglasses I’m sure cost more than I paid for my most expensive shoes.

There’s a pout she puts on for show, asking what took me so long, grinning pearly white when I make a dry comment about having had to chase off my other teenage lover. She calls me a dirty old man as I press into her from behind while she tries to finish her drink and set the glass on the table. Says it in the silky way that makes me hard. Smart, spoiled, pretty as a fucking picture. My fingertips caress pebbled nipples through the thin, indecent fabric of the bikini top, earning me a pleasant movement of her posterior.

I tell her that I love the light blue as I push her onto the nearest lounge chair, thrusting my fingers through wet hair, gathered in a messy ponytail. Quick manicured fingers between us, undoing my slacks, cupping. “Like I wore it for you,” she replies haughtily before I kiss her. The taste of lemonade, the smell of chlorine and fading suntan lotion, fills my senses. Pale flesh lies beneath the halter, cold, and she arches as I dip to take it into my mouth. A happy, excited sigh escapes her lips, hand tightening around me. After so many months, I know her buttons. Just as she, the filthy little harlot, knows mine.

The phone rings from the house, the wretched dog yaps, and she's pushing me off with a graceful shove. My trousers are reluctantly buttoned with fumbling fingers, not graceful not manicured, and I follow her casual voice into the kitchen. Her mother's on the other end, still in Santa Monica, and the dutiful daughter accepts my embrace as she leans against the counter. An eyeroll for my benefit, "Mmhmm. No. Yeah...yeah. Really?", her free hand splayed against my slightly damp shirt. My hand rubbing the outlined dip of her thighs, finding her clit through the clinging material. Her eyes flutter closed, still answering her mother in a bored tone, pulling me down to her by my tie. I press quiet kisses to her neck, bare shoulder, as she repeats some inane instruction and abandons the cordless to the side, near her discarded shades.

She doesn't want to have sex in the kitchen. I follow her upstairs, like the Pomeranian that does not, her bare feet smacking softly on the hardwood floors. My shoes sound uncomfortably like stomps. She's painted her room since the dinner party two months ago ("Puhleeaase? Just sneak up while Daddy's talking to the dean..."), from pale pink to sunny yellow; furniture is still modern, all whites and chrome like a magazine spread for light fixtures. I'm elegantly nudged onto the side of the bed, my lap full of her as she straddles me, sweet mouth attached to mine and hands skating along the front of my shirt. She's very good with buttons. I untie the loose knot at the back of her neck; blue triangles fall forward and expose perky, pink palmfuls. A pinch and she lets out a little moan, gives a wanton grind with her slim, tan hips. I reach for the strings at the sides, realizing she's enjoying her little cocktease routine entirely too much.

Glistening, bare skin is revealed to me, cleft smooth as always. Bottom gone, then top. My shoes and slacks are kicked to the side quickly, landing near her earlier, pre-swimming outfit that's piled like a shed snakeskin on the beige carpet. She has me in her hand, pumping, and a surprised cry morphs into a delighted laugh as I shove her against the mass of pillows near the headboard. I devour her mouth again, all hunger and tongue. Tart. Wouldn't want it any other way. She's got one hand on my bare chest, occasionally sliding beneath the wrinkled white shirt I'm still wearing; the other wound tight in my loose tie, holding me close. All I can think about at the moment, every goddamn day, is being inside her.

Frenzied, familiar movements. Wet hair loose now, curling at the end as it dries, spread across the pillowcase printed with green flowers. Some sort of mod throwback, I suppose. Slam into her yet again (again, again) with enough force to make her give a little scream, that’s swiftly followed by a lift of her pert ass off the sheet. A deep moan, her fingers scratching at my shoulders, chin tilted away from me, eyes shut, as her orgasm hits like a ton of bricks. Incoherent chants, guttural cries. She shudders around me and rubs her soft, delicate hands over the shallow gouges her nails created beneath my shirt, riding out the rest of her climax with my final undoing.

Sprawled, utterly satiated and panting, watching my little minx idly play with the now stolen silk tie. Snaked around her wrist as she returns one of the many vitally important text messages she has received in the near hour I've been keeping her from connecting with the world. Thumbs moving rapidly still over the glittering buttons, broad end of the tie pooling between her naked breasts. She would let me bind her hands with it, if I were to catch her in the mood to play a submissive.

My eyes stray to the table beside me. Her occupied contacts case; hair-clip more closely resembling a torture device; a crumbled tissue holding the remains of bright blue gum; fresh issue of Cosmo beneath a bookmarked copy of a collected analysis involving laboratory mice and anti-psychotic medication. The pouting blonde in a halter promises "Make Your Man Quiver" and stylized pink cursive swears that the secrets to eyeliner await within! The mice say nothing, but do resemble the golden-haired actress at several key facial features.

The sophisticated princess filled with my spendings has ceased her communication with the outside momentarily and deigned to focus her attentions upon me once again. Draping her thin body around mine, hand gently petting the wiry curls she finds trailing down to the erection she's encouraging the return of. Her warm, giggling mouth on my chest, I eye the tie pulled along for the journey. Imagine it restraining her, tan body arching as I tease her throbbing clit and folds with my mouth. Weak threats and happy screams. Maybe...

I've got 'till five.


End file.
